it’s silent between the bookshelves, but it whispers about everything.

i buy some of the titles that just won’t let go of me.

and pencils, a small zebra and a whole lot of special notebooks.

i had come to think of a favorite teacher. my swedish teacher as a teenager.

i have always loved to write, but she brought that lust out, even from the

most recalcitrant of the class. i remember the silent concentration,

the sound of lead scraping onto paper

and the scattered, surprised & private chuckles.

hands resting in chins and musing gazes, those that are veiled

and disappear somewhere, far beyond the classroom walls.

the memory of her and her wonderful classes

got me to buy a sort of notebook named 642 things to write about.

for she could have, word for word, - written the part of its

prologue which reads

"I tell this story because it’s a lesson in hidden potential.

You never know what might happen.

In a single day, if you hit the right nerve, you could have something,

- maybe it’s the start of something, maybe it’s the whole thing.

And it doesn’t even have to begin with your own idea.

You just have to get creative and plunge in."

i take my heavy shopping bag and find my way out into the sunshine.

i’m looking for new shade and find it in a bar just opened for the afternoon.

i order a glass of chilled, white wine and find a corner table

where i spread out all those newfound treasures.

i open the book with 642 things to write about at random.

have decided to just.. write. not to let it go up in my head so much.

the first thing that comes to me i will jot down, on the white sheets of paper

with the limited space and the unbound potential.

my browsing lands at number 56 of 642.

that particular one turns out to be not of imagination,

but of a true and suddenly remembered memory,

immediately brought near the surface.

The moment you knew you were no longer a child

i found myself suddenly sitting on a softly worn bench in a park,

instead of on a metal chair in a class room, as i was supposed to be.

it was indian summer and i think i earned my first war paint stripes then and there,

deciding; in the quiet of myself & that warm september day,

that i was dropping out of university.

answering, writing, i was there again.with my hand in my chinand a gaze disappearing somewhere, far beyond the walls.with the room turned into only lead against paper and the inward infinite.i browse pages at random and write as i did before, and never before.m finds me like that, in a bar now filled up with people, without me noticing.on my softly worn wooden table, their flowers crowds with books, pencils and a zebra.in me, crowds all the other, plethoric worlds. and i let out a surprised chuckle.m looks at me then, with a love i've never seen in a pair of eyes before.perhaps that’s because the eyes really are, not only that soul’s,but also ones own soul’s, - mirror.i can sense myself how my cheeks are blushing rosesand how the stories are all as if written all across my skin.he reads aloud only the ones i’ve written down,as the afternoon become eveningand we become intoxicated with white wine & inspiration.what is your moment,- the moment you knew you were no longer a child?

I better won´t tell about the day when I knew I am no longer a child...it would destroy the beautiful Feeling in this wonderful post!but again Honey....I feel a bit hope...once I found those eyes filled with so much love that my heart seemed to burst - 2 times in one life from the same man - 22 years in between...and both times I lost them and him. Lifes lessons sometimes are more than cruel...But who knows, maybe I will find another pair of beautiful eyes with so much love for me....I will never stop hope...thank you for this post.big kissx, t.

oh.. i wish you would tell, sweetheart. (but of course not if you don’t want to.) i’m pretty sure nothing you could tell,would destroy anything beautiful,but rather the contrary, - i think the shadowy partsof a soul, a life, a human,are very often the most beautiful ones. they just tend to feel befouled inside ourselves.

and oh.. now there is beauty in that story too..albeit, as almost all the best of them, - one wearing a mourning band. i am sorry you lost that love.

.. and i wish that that love, but also & at the same timethe one that does n o t slip away, will be yours.

I feel so inspired after reading your words, hannah! That quote, I think I'll have to write it carefully down... in a nice, bound notebook :) Those moments, losing yourself completely,magic! What an intriguing question, one I don't think I've necessarily consciously asked myself.It may sound clichéd, but for me it was those first frail weeks after having my first child,so pretty late along the line I guess.The strange thing is,I'm sure I've been turning more into child again in the last few years:) Thank you for pouring yourself into this space,you have no idea how much it sparks inside one's soul... x

thank you so much, sweet rebecca..! that is one of the compliments i treasure the most;having inspired someone.. as i know that spark, that bubblylust.. it amazes me i can conjure that in someone else. so truly.. thank you..!

me neither.. i hadn’t thought of it before flipping the page to that particular ’assignment’ that day.. i’m kind of glad i wasin the mental state of ready to just pour out whatever came first to mind. as i might not even have thought of that memory was i to be more focused on writing ’the right thing’..

.. but again, i thought, just as you write now, about you,- that it was, as you put it ’pretty late along the line’. but i also think, when you are rather sheltered as we are,we have the luxury of growing up, in that sense of the word,- quite ’late’..

.. i can also completely see (and feel) how you could feelthe first child, the first becoming a mother as a moment like that..and if it’s clichéd, i think i’ve noticed lately (and started to accept *smiles*)that, a lot of the life-changing moments, sound worn a bit put in writing..but i guess that’s for a reason, we are all human after all.

i don’t find it strange you feel you’ve become more of a child lately either.*smiles* i find the ’seasons’ of life tend to reoccur, at different stages..and i hope i havn’t experienced my last feeling of childhood, or a bit of wild teens for that matter..

thank you for making that pouring of mine such a beautiful & rewarding thing. for being here, in this space.